Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

David Heiller When was the last time you heard a scary story? How about the latest presidential poll? (Just kidding, George.) This newspaper recently ran a contest, soliciting scary stories from readers. We’ve got some good ones, and have printed several of the best on page seven in this edition. I hope you enjoy them. The Heiller boys, before they started  telling little brother, David, horror stories I may be mistaken, but the best horror stories come from the minds of kids. As a member of the generation that grew up before axe-murder movies, I confess: I haven’t seen Friday the Thirteeth Part One yet, let alone Part Seven. And this Freddie guy doesn’t scare me—when I see those stainless steel finger nails, I think what a great job he could do working up our garden next spring. Wouldn’t even have to borrow a tiller. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre guy would be too tired for people after he finished cutting up the four-and-a-half cords of wood I bought from m...

David Heiller It was interesting visiting with Bob Stark last week. Or should I say Mr. Stark, That’s how I always thought of him at Caledonia High School. I went to his house on October 13 and took a picture of him with an award he received from Winona State University. Mr. Stark (old habits die hard) told me how much he liked my writing. He recalled my mother—she had red hair right?—back when my brother Glenn first signed up for football, probably in 1957. He reminisced about Johnny Winslow. He talked about how much he loves Caledonia, how good the city has been to him.  Mr. Stark, from the 1971 yearbook (Thank you for sending  me this, Jane Palen) I left with   a hearty handshake and a pat on the back.   “You take care!” he said. I felt like charging out of the house and onto a football field. That’s the kind of guy Mr. Stark is, and was. Allow me three trips down memory lane. I remember at the end of eighth gr...

David Heiller Warning: The following column contain graphic (but not salacious) material. And if that doesn’t get you reading it, nothing will! Winter must be coming, because our house is filling up with mice and flies. It happens every year at this time. I can understand the mice. They feel temperature changes, so they head for a warmer home, which happens to be my home. But flies? Are flies that smart? I don’t like living with either one. I love my wife and two kids and two dogs and one cat. But mice and flies are not welcome. Cindy alerted me to this fall’s mouse invasion about a month ago, when she found shredded toilet paper in the bottom of the bathroom vanity, where she stores things like toilet paper. She figured mice were using it for something other than its intended purpose. She figured they were using it to make a nest. You know what that means. More mice! A battle plan was needed, so she called on me. I’m Chief Mouse Catcher in our house. I’ve been refining ...

David Heiller I t’s funny how a road can hold so many memories A road is, after all, just a road: But people do have their favorites, and that applies to roads as well as grandkids . A good walk down the road. The road to Freeburg—State Highway 249—from Highway 26 i s one of those. Cindy and I used to pipe-dream about buying the farm from Florence Sheriff back when we were first married, We still say, “There’s our house,” when we go by. Going past the Freeburg church is special too, and better yet, stopping to say hello to all those relatives that I never knew. I wish they could talk back,. I like to look down the road and across Crooked Creek to where Grandma Heiller was born. And of course Little Miami stands like a pot of gold at the end of a gravel rainbow. How many fine meals have we had there with Mom and Grandma and all the brothers and sisters and cousins and nephews and nieces? County Road 3 holds many good memories for me too. I traveled it to hig...

David Heiller                                                                                                                                                                                      “How did you sleep?” Cindy asked when I woke up on Tuesday morning. “Great,” I replied. “I slept the sleep of a Vikings victory.” And it was true. Monday nights I don’t often sleep well, as I ponder what the heck to put in the Askov American for that week. But the Vikings had won, and I had drifted off to sleep with scenes of the, win pl...

David Heiller The tomatoes are testing fate, and testing our patience, just as they have all summer. All right, maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on them. Our first 24 transplants were cut down in their youth by a killer frost on June first. I discovered them at 3 a.m. gasping in the grips of that silent killer two months and 11 days ago. We put new transplants in that same week, and they’ve been testing fate ever since. A tiny portion of the tomatoes  I have processed. Planting tomatoes in Birch Creek Township is always a gamble, not matter when the frost says goodbye in the spring, and says hello in the fall. You keep an ear cocked to the radio for frost warnings this time of year, the way British listened for the Luftwaffe in the fall of 1940. Our first frost this fall came on August 27. I covered the tomatoes with every spare blanket and piece of plastic I could find. I even tried to take the quilt from the baby’s crib, but Cindy drew the line there. Even the tomato...

David Heiller There’s always a bit of adventure when friends and relatives come to visit at our house, often thanks to not having an indoor bathroom. I’ve gotten used to the privvy, but city-dwellers especially seem to put the walk to the outhouse in the same category as a trip through the jungles of the Amazon. The bane of many guests at our house  in those days: The Outhouse. Take this past weekend, for example. On Saturday morning, my mother-in-law arrived for a two-day visit. She sat down at the kitchen table and announced, “I have to go to the bathroom.” Most 53-year-old women don’t proclaim such things at the kitchen table. But at our house such announcements are often made by guests, because our bathroom is a two-seater about 20 yards from the house. By stating her intentions, my mother-in-law was working up the courage to actually pay her visit. An hour later, still sitting at the kitchen table and two cups of coffee further along, she announced aga...