Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

By David Heiller The black flies struck with fury when we arrived at Kawishiwi Lodge. They swarmed over me as I fished for sunnies in the shallow water in front of our dock. They bit rings around Cindy’s legs, so that she looked like she was wearing red anklets. They chewed a circle of bites around my daughter’s stomach, where her T-shirt ended. My son’s neck had at least 150 bites. Ah, what a vacation. None of us knew what a black fly was before last week. We don’t have black flies here. We have gnats. They swarm around your head when you’re playing softball. You swing and cuss at them. Don’t cuss at them. Thank them for not inviting their big cousins, the black flies. Black flies are like giant gnats, with machetes. They land and stab. Their bites make big red welts. They itch, and stain your shirt with blood. They are worse than mosquitoes, because there is no repellant to keep them off. Nothing. We can put a man on the moon but we can’t make a spray to keep off bla...

David Heiller I walked up to the house on Saturday with my two kids. The grass was neatly cut, some thoughtful grandson’s handiwork. Peonies bloomed in front of the picture window. The garden patch showed off its neat rows of young vegetables. The pear tree swayed in the warm breeze. Grandma Heiller I stepped up to the picture window, half expecting to see the television silhouetting the hunched lady in her rocking chair. I gave a little knock on the window, remembering the first time I had done that in August of 1979. Grandma Heiller had peered through the glass, seeing her grandson for the first time in two years after he returned from overseas. She had stared, then smiled, and reached her right hand up to touch the glass as if it weren’t there, reaching for me. Standing on the porch, I opened the screen door, and knocked. The inside door still had its etched glass, looking frosty as ever. I knocked harder. No answer. I remembered Grandma couldn’t hear well, especially ...

Act one: “Wake up Noah, it’s time to go fishing.” I half expected my son to roll over and say no thanks. It’s happened before from 16-year-old boys at 5 a.m. But Noah, always a light sleeper, had rolled out of bed before I was downstairs. Fishing dreams always abound,  but do not always materialize. We had plotted our strategy the night before. I bought minnows and dug worms. I called two fishermen friends to see what was biting, and where. I pulled the boat out, put on the motor, checked the gas. I had rigged up four rods, one for crappies, one for sunnies, one for bass, and one with a plain hook. I filled a pack with water bottle, muffins, apples, oranges, and binoculars. What was I for-getting? The kitchen sink, maybe. Noah barely raised an eyebrow at all this. “I’m just going to cast for bass,” he had said in a voice that wondered what all the fuss was about. All the fuss?!? This was the first time out with the fishing boat. The first time on a local lake. ...