The winner, and still champion, is… ~ February 20, 1986

David Heiller

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Monday Night Fights.”

The spotlight shines on the small mat, as the house lights dim, and the crowd suddenly murmurs to a hush. The announcer’s voice rings with the hardness of metal. He’s seen fights before, lots of them. But nothing like this one.

“Ladieeeees and gennnntlemennnnn,” he continues. “In this corner, weighing two hundred pounds, standing six feet, one half inch, the defending Diaper Dad of Birch Creek Township, David Heiiiiiiiiiller.” Five thousand dads cheer, stomp their feet, nudge each other in the ribs nodding to their Great White Hope.

Malika Squirm-Worm Heiller practicing
one of her infamous moves

“And in this corner, weighing 21 pounds, standing 29 inches, the reigning Squirm-Worm, Mollie Heiiiiller.” Now the crowd erupts with squeals, gurgles, coos and cries from 5,000 babies and their Moms who have come to watch the Kid.

The announcer steps aside, takes his seat in the radio booth, as Dad steps up to the mat. The Baby lies still, on her back, watching his eyes.

Ding!

And the action has begun folks. It’s Pajama Time and Dad, still groggy from eight hours at the office, had better not take this little Log Legs for granted. He’s got the zipper down on her jump suit. But Mollie has started her famous inside right roll. Watch how she lowers her right shoulder and swings her left knee into the air. Dad crowds into her with his ample midsection, but she slides away from him, and there—she’s on her belly. Two points for a reverse.

Now Dad flips her over again. He got the zipper down, that’s worth one point, but here comes that inside roll again. Wait, Dad grabs her left knee, and holds it with one hand, while he slips the jump suit down with the other. Now he pulls at her leg openings. Oops—a big mistake for the old man, as Mollie gets her knee free and rolls onto her belly. Another two points for the Kid. Dad pulls the outfit off while she is on her belly, so he gets no points for that cheap move.

Now she’s back on her back, as the score remains 4-1. Dad has the two snaps off her shirt. What’s this? The seldom seen forearm defense, as Dad presses his left arm from elbow to wrist at an angle across Mollie’s midsection. She’s caught in a vice, while Dad slips both shirts off her head. A fine two-point move for Dad.

With the lead a slim 4-3, Dad’s nearly half way done. He pulls off the plastic pants with his free right hand, while the left arm still is flattening the Kid. Listen to the crowd boo. They don’t think much of a one armed dad. He’s got one pin undone, but here comes Mollie’s trump card—she arches her neck, and her head is suddenly a huge ball bearing that she uses to spin onto her belly. Two more for the Kid, and the diaper only half off.

Another flip onto her back, and Dad tries the double forearm technique, with left arm pinning down Mollie’s chest, and right holding both legs across the knees. Trailing 6-3, the Dad can’t afford any more blunders. He’s got the pin off, and there’s the diaper. And that diaper is not what you’d call clean. That’s two penalty points against Mollie. Listen to those dads cheer—come on folks, she couldn’t help that.

Seriously? This angelic creature is the same one in this column?

Well, he’s got her cleaned up, and the night time diaper is in place. He’s one-handing her now, as she tries all her tricks, inside roll, neck bridge, leg kick. But Dad’s got a secret trick too, and he’s going to use it. Here it comes—the Tickle. Just as Mollie is ready to flip, Dad catches her under the arm pits with two fingers, and Mollie falls weakly onto her back again, giggling. It’s just the time he needs to get the diapers taped on, and the pajamas over her arms. Give Dad two points, and he takes the lead, 7-6 with only two legs left to go into the ‘jammies.

He pull her to her feet to finish her off, but look at that move—Mollie has grabbed the entire mat on the changing able, and lifts it up with her. That’s a point folks, and it’s all tied up, as Dad slips her feet into the p.j.’s and pulls up the zipper.

It’s all over, ladies and gentlemen, and the judges rule it a tie, 7-7. Listen to that crowd roar.

The Dad walks into the living room, as the crowd noise dies down. In the background a woman’s weary voice is heard above the TV: “How would you like to do that five times a day?”

Dad shudders and ignores the comment, basking in his efforts, and glad that they come but once a day.

Rosie wins the battle ~ March 10, 2005

David Heiller

Rosie was onto something, that was obvious. I could hear her growling and yipping in the “West Wing” of the barn on Saturday afternoon. I tuned it out for about an hour, but finally my curiosity got to me. I put down my hammer and went to investigate.

After a bit of searching, I located her burrowing into a stack of hay bales, sniffing, and whining. It wasn’t easy to see her, wedged between the hay and the wall. There isn’t much to see to begin with, Rosie being a miniature dachshund and all. I grabbed her by the collar and pulled her up. She turned her growl in my direction. That’s when I heard a snarl in return, somewhere in the pile of bales.

I can handle snarls from animals I know. But snarling visitors, whoever they may be, are not welcome in the Heiller barn. So I set Rosie back down.

Rosie and the possum

This time she tore into the hay like a tornado. The other critter had had enough of Rosie too, and they met in their hidden arena, their howls and growls mixed together in a frightening din. I was instantly worried. I didn’t want to lose Rosie, and I had no idea what she had unearthed.

Then a streak of gray tore out of the hay and across the floor. I jumped back. A possum! “Go get it Rosie!” I yelled. My killer instincts were kicking in too..

David with Rosie after The Great Possum Battle.

Rosie tried, but she was a couple seconds late in pursuit, and that possum was quick. It disappeared in the clutter of the barn. Rosie circled all around, behind the garbage cans, under the boat, around two different woodpiles. There are a lot of hiding places in a barn. I grabbed a hoe to lend any assistance possible. But the possum was gone.

I returned to my job, then went into the house to get ready for church. I came back out, carrying my camera in the hopes of getting a picture of a deer or turkey on the way to town. But first I had to gather up Rosie and put her in her kennel.

Rosie was again on the scent of the possum. This time she was growling at a pile of foam panels. I started moving the panels, and heard the growl of the possum. Rosie roared into action again, and a rolling ball of black and gray fur emerged at my feet.

It was a horrible and yet fascinating sight. Rosie curls up on the couch with us most nights, but what I was witnessing was a compact killing machine that moved faster than my eye could follow.

I was very glad that I was not a possum.

It was over quite quickly, maybe 10 seconds, although it seemed longer than that. The possum lay motionless, its mouth stretched into a horrible grin of death. Always the newspaper-man, I took a picture of Rosie putting the finishing touches on the battle, and include it as state’s evidence with this column.

I picked up Rosie. She gave me a look that said, “What are you doing?” Yet she didn’t object too loudly. She seemed to be in a state of shock over what had just happened. I guess I was too.

Rosie watching over David during a nap. I am sure she was ready to protect him from any 'possums that might be ready to invade.

I put Rosie in her kennel, then headed out to church. But first I went to pick up the dead possum and put it in the trash. It was gone! It had lived up to its reputation and had played possum. I read later that possums become temporarily paralyzed and fall into a state of coma when they are confronted with danger. Rosie’s instincts probably knew that better than mine.

It wasn’t such a bad ending though. I had to admire that possum. It had fooled me, if not Rosie. That pea-brained possum has probably high-tailed it to Walter Kueblers by now. If it is dumb enough to hang around the Heiller barn; it will face the wrath of Rosie. And you should never bet against a gal named Rosie.

Snowshoe hike was good for us all ~ February 12, 1998

David Heiller

Cindy and Mollie and I strapped on snowshoes and headed into the woods on Sunday afternoon.

The snowshoe gang relaxes.

We had plenty of work to do at home. Ironing for my wife, Cindy, newspaper work for me. Even Mollie, 12, had her piano to practice.

But if you can’t make room for a Sunday saunter, then something is wrong, especially on a gorgeous day with temperatures in the thirties.

We started at a friend’s house. Our goal was to walk three miles southeast through the woods to another friend’s house.

Let’s face it, you can’t get lost in the winter in snow. All you have to do is turn around and follow your footprints back to where you started.

That’s one thing I like about snowshoeing. I have a tendency to get turned around in the woods, and it always worries me a little. But not in the winter, with snow on the ground.

We started out on a logging road, following our friend’s ski tracks. Mollie wanted to walk down the ski trail, but I told her that would not be polite.

We admired his woods. It’s always fun to check out other people’s trees. We stopped at a windfall of oak that had firewood written all over it.

“Red oak,” I told Mollie with authority.

“No that’s a pin oak,” she replied. Tones of authority get on her nerves. I guess she learned that in Tom Leustek’s science class at Willow River High School.

The ski trail ended. Then we went through the woods in a southerly direction. There were trails galore through the woods, deer and squirrels and rabbits and coyotes. Our dog, MacΚenzie, was with us. She had a great time sniffing and exploring.

We saw many places where deer had lain. One area they had pawed leaves out of the snow. There must have been 10 deer beds there.

About halfway to our destination, Mollie started complaining that her feet were cold. She hadn’t worn wind pants, against Cindy’s advice. Now snow was finding its way into her boots. Snow has a way of doing that, especially when you fall down, which Mollie did a time or two.

“How far is it?” she asked. I tried to think of a safe answer. Too far and she’d give up. Too close and she’d lose faith in me. The fact is, I didn’t know.

“Half a mile,” I answered.

We trudged on. Cindy thought we should go a little further east. I said no, and since I had the privilege of breaking trail, I won.

“How far is it?” Mollie asked again.

“Oh, about half a mile,” I said.

“You said that 15 minutes ago,” she said. Oops.

Up ahead I spied a meadow through the trees. “I think I remember that meadow,” I said. “Κaarin’s house is just beyond it.” Well, I wasn’t absolutely sure about that.

We came to the edge of the big field. A deer bounded across it, 50 yards ahead of us, then another, and another. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven deer. What a pretty sight. It rejuvenated us for a bit.

But Mollie’s feet were soaked. Cindy scooped a handful of snow from the tops of her boots. Her socks had slipped down. The skin above her ankles was red and raw. I got cold just looking at them. Is there anything more miserable than cold, wet feet?

She asked again how far it was. “Three eighths of a mile,” I said.

We walked across the huge field, feeling like we were hardly moving. The hike was testing our endurance. Every good hike does that.

Then we spied a house to the west of Kaarin’s. Sure enough, I had veered off course. Cindy had been right. That’s not unusual.

We got to Kaarin’s house 15 minutes later. Our hike was over. It had taken 90 minutes. We were tired. Mollie’s feet really hurt. But Kaarin gave her some dry socks and a pair of sweat pants, and she was soon fine.

Best of all, she enjoyed it. She was proud of herself. We were too. I would have griped a lot more than her. I hate wet feet in the winter.

Next time she’ll dress a little differently, and we’ll have an even better time. (Hey, a little encouragement never hurt anyone.)

Go hear the beautiful swan song ~ November 12, 2003

David Heiller

I stopped the car at Heiller Valley on Sunday morning, stepped out, and entered the world of swans.

Malika took these pictures on November 7, 2013.

First the sound hit me. Α swan song. It’s hard to describe, but the first thing that comes to my mind is the scene from the Wizard of Oz when the flying monkeys come swooping in for Dorothy and Toto.

I would wager a fair sum that the sound track from that scene came from a bunch of swans. It sounds like a lot of people laughing and talking, but they aren’t quite human sounds. The sound carries a long way. I can hear it from our new home 1-1/2 miles to the west.

I walked across Highway 26 and down the bank to the railroad tracks. The swans that were close to shore did not like that. I didn’t care. I walked across Highway 26 and down the bank to the railroad tracks. The swans that were close to shore did not like that. I didn’t care. No one else was around, and I wanted a closer look.

They gave it to me as they churned off the water. It took a while for the tundra swans to take off. They pounded the water with their wings, frothing it white with a sound similar to fans at a football game applauding while wearing gloves and mittens. When the swans finally got airborne, darned if they didn’t look like those flying monkeys.

And not just one little group, mind you. But flocks of 50 here, 100 there. Some landing; some circling, some heading toward Wisconsin, and all of them talking at the same time. My nephew John joined me a few minutes later. He saw the sky full of retreating swans. “You did all that?” he asked. “Way to go, Uncle David”

“Thanks,” I replied.

We walked north up the tracks and for a few minutes we were speechless, which is a rare condition for John. The sheer magnitude of the swans was almost beyond words. There were thousands of them, maybe tens of thousands, literally as far as the eye could see, scattered on the broad river like handfuls of popcorn.

Then John started peppering me with questions. He knew I didn’t have the answers, because for one thing, he is smarter than I am. Still, he had to ask. Where did they come from? Where are they heading? How many are there? Are they in other places too? How long will they stay here?

I didn’t have the answers, so I wrote a front page article in this week’s paper about the swans. You can get information on the swans at this website: http://midwest.fws.gov/uppermis­sissippiriver, or by calling 1-800-218-8917.

If you have a chance to see the swans, I highly recommend it. Drive south of Brownsville on Highway 26, and look at the river from Shellhorn on down. You’ll be amazed.

And don’t forget to get out and listen to those flying monkeys.

Mommy-Daddy tomorrow? ~ February 3, 1983

Editor's note: I believe that this was David's first column as the editor of the Askov American. The idea of a weekly column was just beginning to percolate in his mind. So, the format  and the style were a little different. The story is a beloved one in our family. 

ON CAMP COURAGE: David's older sister Lynette went to camp, David and I met at camp (he was the cowboy, I was the cook).  My brother and sister-in-law worked there. Our daughter, Malika worked at camp. It is not a stretch to say what an important place Camp Courage was to our family.

David Heiller

 Every week, newspapers like the American are inundated with press releases from people, organizations or businesses who have some information they would like passed along.

Some of the press releases are for good causes, others are blatantly self-serving, little more than free advertising. The press release on the front page of this week’s American from the Courage Center is one of those good causes. I must admit a bias though—I worked at Camp Courage, a camp for handicapped people, for five summers as counselor, camp-crafter, riding instructor and everything in between.

David with a camper at Camp Courage.

I could talk for hours about the good people who work with the Courage organization, or about the campers, or the programs. But instead I’d like to share a humorous experience that occurred my first summer at camp.

It was the summer of 1972. The first session of handicapped campers, aged 25-45, had left two days earlier, and we were welcoming in the most exciting, fun group—the 8 to 12-year-olds. I was a first year counselor and like all first year counselors, was eager and excited and a little bit nervous. Every time a new camper would arrive, I would greet them enthusiastically and try to make them feel at home. Remember, it’s hard for any kid to leave home, especially for two weeks. Many of these kids had never left their parents for a night before, let alone two weeks. Home-sickness was to be expected, and we were prepared for it.

But we weren’t prepared for Jimmy. Jimmy arrived Sunday afternoon, eight years old, in a wheelchair with cerebral palsy. He couldn’t walk, and he had limited use of his arms though he could feed himself with help. He could talk in a limited way, not in complete sentences. We found that out quickly. Jimmy’s first words as soon as his parents had left were, “Mommy—Daddy tomorrow?”

“Mommy—Daddy tomorrow?” became a familiar question from Jimmy. Many times a day he would turn his head toward us, staring with big, brown eyes, and ask, “Mommy—Daddy tomorrow?”

“No, Jimmy,” we’d answer. “You’re mommy and daddy won’t be coming for a while. But aren’t you having fun at camp?” And we’d tell him about all the fun things he was doing at camp such as swimming, horseback riding or softball. Jimmy thoroughly enjoyed the activities, but still, he would ask, “Mommy—Daddy tomorrow?”

The two-week camping session progressed and as it did so, the counselors in Jimmy’s cabin, including myself, began to tire of Jimmy’s questioning. But one counselor had a great thought, one that lifted our spirits with Jimmy.

“Just think,” he said, “on Wednesday when Jimmy asks `Mommy—Daddy tomorrow,’ we can say, “YES JIMMY, MOMMY—DADDY ARE COMING TOMORROW.”

We were all excited about that answer and were all excited when Wednesday finally came. We all got dressed, the four counselors, and went out to Jimmy’s bed. He was lying there awake, almost as if he were waiting for us.

“Jimmy,” we started, “guess what?”

Jimmy calmly looked up at us with those big brown eyes and asked, “Mommy—Daddy today?”

‘Just One Bonkoski Party’ ~ February 4, 1999

David Heiller

There are times when I wish I could be someone one else, just for five minutes. Such a moment came last Friday, when I was buying a banjo.

I sat in the Homestead Pickin’ Parlor in Richfield with a beautiful banjo in my lap: Several people sat nearby listening to me.

Not that they had much choice. When a guy is playing a banjo, about all you can do is listen or walk away. It’s hard to carry on a conversation in the same three-block area, let alone the same room. Might as well listen. That’s what makes the banjo such a popular instrument.

But just this once, I thought in the way back of my mind, just this once, for five minutes, let me be a brilliant banjo player. Let me be Earl Scruggs. Or Reed Martin.

I won’t bore you with a lot of banjo lore. BUT for three-finger banjo, “Scruggs-style” playing, Earl in his prime was the best. The style is named after him. Many people know his music, especially the theme song to Bonnie and Clyde.

David loved playing old-time music best of all. 
I do not think he had any idea about how good he was...

Reed Martin is not a household name by any means. But he is without doubt the best old-time banjo player I have ever heard. It’s a different style than Earl’s, but equally beautiful in the hands of a master.

So I sat at Homestead and thought, Let me see the jaws drop and the eyes widen and the grins spread on the guys listening to me. Let me see the people in the other room come running to see who the heck is playing that well.

Moments like that come every so often, when you have center stage and you would like to be the best, or even pretty darn good.

Or they come, for me at least, when I hear what sounds like perfection. A perfect voice. A perfect violin solo. Then something inside me says, I’d like to do that. Just once, Lord. What Ι can Ι give you in trade?

Cindy and I even joke about this. When we hear something that sounds fantastic, that we’d like to be able to do, we’ll often say, “Just One Bonkoski Party.”

It’s a joke we have that stems from the good old days when I would just once want to be the life of a Steve and Barb Bonkoski party and stop everybody in mid-sentence with a dazzling banjo solo, or a spine tingling rendition of Ave Maria, or a flawless Moonlight Sonata on the piano.

It never happened, except in my imagination. But now when I hear something really fantastic, like Reed Martin or Earl Scruggs, I think, “Just One Bonkoski Party.” Let me do that.

I thought it would be fun to put a local angle on my delusions of grandeur. So with trepidation, I ask the following question.

Wouldn’t you like to be able to:

 Sing like Don Hogquist? Or Elaine Laposky?

Installing the BEAUTIFUL kitchen he crafted...
Who wouldn't want to just once accomplish
 something like Dave Landwehr?

n Build a kitchen like Dave Landwehr?

n Build a house like Daryl Klocke?

n Take pictures like Craig Blacklock?

n Direct a play like Kathy Ebnet?

n Skate like Jason Brabec?

n Run like Dustin Hejny?

n Play basketball like Andrea Bennett?

n Coach like Pat Dewey?

n Cuss like Del Delaney?

n Play the accordion like Red Hansen?

n Write like Hertha Hansen?

n Quilt like Cora Abrahamsen?

n Remember names like Bruce Bohaty? (“Hi Dave. Hi Bob. Hi Sharon. Hi Jim” etc, etc.)

n Teach like Dee Jensen?

n Draw like Linda Schaumburg?

Play the accordion like Red Hansen. 
David was very happy
 to play WITH Red Hansen!

n Grow flowers like Pat Ring?

n Operate a back hoe like Dave Jensen?

n Sew like Arlene Alleman?

n Shoot the breeze like Rocky Kroon?

n Type like Lynn Storrar?

n Be friendly like Joanne Carlson?

n Proofread like Hazel Serritslev?

n Fix an engine like Jim Kephart?

n Sell ads like Donna Cronin?

n  Play the guitar like Dave Wίlen?

n  Preach like Owen Christianson?

n  Kiss like Deb Oft? (An old college girlfriend.)

n  Bake bread like Cindy Heiller? (Maybe I should turn those last two around.)

n Be patient like Steve Popowitz?

n Fix a furnace like Gary Drilling?

n Shoot a rifle like Liz Espointour?

Alas, poor David, but he 
seemed to make do, just fine.

n Dance like Jennifer Kvam?

n Fish like Bob Dutcher?

I hope I haven’t offended somebody by leaving people off this impromptu list, or by putting, them on. This is MY list.

Feel free to put your name in the propel you feel slighted, or take if off if you feel unworthy.

I know what some of you are thinking keep doing your best, Dave, That’s all you do, Dave. Don’t try to be someone you’re not Dave.

I believe that too. Ι tell it tο my kids, and myself, all the time. Most of us mortals don’t have much choice.

But still there are those moments, like at music store last Friday, when the time is perfect, and I think, “Just One Bonkoski Party.”

One final lesson from Grandma ~ February 2, 1989

David Heiller

Grandma Schnick taught us many things.

Grandma taught us to love Colby cheese, long-horn style, cheese that broke like a jigsaw puzzle in little hands. She taught us to love hot dish and hominy and soft ice cream from her old refrigerator, and Jello with apricots on Sunday when company came, “Eyeball Jello” we called it, and chicken which we had to eat all the meat off the bone the way Grandma said Grandpa always did.

Stella Schnick a.k.a Grandma Schnick
September 3, 1895- March 8, 1989

Grandma taught us to play cribbage, and though she always pegged a double-run-of-eight every hand, she let us win often enough to keep playing.

She taught us to watch baseball games on her Zenith TV while she chattered on the couch in the background and we groaned at Sandy Koufax throwing a 2-0 shutout in the seventh game of the ‘65 Series.

She taught us Mother Goose, reading while we sat on her lap in the rocking chair from a thick book without covers which she kept on the bottom of her treadle sewing machine.

Grandma Schnick and Noah

Grandma taught us to say things like “For Heaven’s sake,” and “For goodness sake,” and “For pity sake,” when our friends were saying other phrases like, well, yes, we said them too.

She taught us to take care of tools, to put hammers and saws back in their places, to keep a whetstone handy to touch up the scythe like she said Grandpa used to do.

Grandma taught us to give a slice of bread and an egg to the bums who slept in the fire hall across the street at night and called on our house, an easy mark, in the morning.

She taught us to watch Jeopardy, and Hollywood Squares, and to listen to Paul Harvey every noon on the radio after the whistle rang.

Grandma taught us to say “Thank you” and “Please” and to talk to old people, because she always told us when some young person would not stop and talk to her, and when they would, until we knew which was the proper thing to do, until we knew the difference between a polite person and a “whippersnapper.”

She taught us to listen for her come creaking down the 17 steps from her home upstairs, then hit the porch with her click-clack-clickety-clack hard heels across the cement porch, sparks a-flying, or so we’d imagine.

Grandma taught us how a mother helps her daughter without a husband raise eight kids, ages one to 10.

She taught us what a grandmother was all about.

She taught us as children, and as adults, and she taught our children too. For 93 years, she taught.

She taught us each something different, yet she taught us one thing the same: she taught us how to love, and so how to live. Now, as we kneel one by one like pilgrims at her side and hold her thin hand, and stare at her china face and see her eyes glisten and her mouth smile slightly for one last hug and kiss, Grandma has taught us one final thing: how to say goodbye.

Thank you, Grandma, for that.